stars entangled in the brightest constellations
by scarlet phlame
Summary: Rose Tyler forgets things, sometimes. ""Doctor, tell me what's the matter." He rakes a hand through his hair, conflicted, eyes flickering back and forth from hers to the ground. "You said she called for Thanksgiving, right?" "Yes," she responds, meekly. He sighs. "Rose, it's past Thanksgiving. It's been past November for about... say, three months, so far."" (twoshot)


_Can't stop running_

_Don't stare into my soul_

_Eyes are black as night_

_Heart is darker than coal_

_But I'll keep on fighting_

_Until the very end_

-stars-

"Doctor, are you ever gonna come outta there?" Her call from the end of the hallway at the other side of the door that might as well be a thousand lifetimes away doesn't sound as fragile or weak as it should.

"In a mo," he whispers back. He leans his ear against the clean black door, strands of flyaway hair clinging to the door.

"All right," she says, clicking her tongue. He hangs his head over and watches her shadow retreat from the doorway, the soft pit-pat of her feet dancing across the marble floor.

He forces his eyes shut, licking his lips. It's during moments like these when he begins to wonder if he can ever be considered a person anymore.

Perhaps he isn't. Perhaps he's little more than a mere piece of plywood, clinging to the surface of the dry ocean, bobbing gently in nothing else than a recurring motion.

But she makes him more than the person he already is. Or the person that remains of him.

He walks to the kitchen- no, _floats_, in a slumberless daze, her words nothing more than mere noise to his ears.

"Emily called," she tells him, smile dipping at the edge of her lips as her eyes darken. "She wanted to have us over for Thanksgiving dinner. Says there'll be turkey."

The Doctor watches her warily as she stirs an orange-brown solution into the soup settling on the stove.

"That's nice," he says carefully.

"Hmm?" she asks.

"No, no," he responds simply, ruffling a hand through his thick, coarse brown hair. "It's just... well, just that..."

"Just that what?" Rose encourages, never turning from the stove. He watches her golden hair flutter softly against her brilliant red dress with every movement she makes. Even tired and forgetful like she is now, she still looks absolutely stunning in the dim golden light.

He's suddenly reminded of something that happened long, long ago. Something so long ago it might not have even happened to begin with. Sometime when a man and a woman had stood, linked hand-in-hand in the wake of an an entirely different sun, on a completely different planet. When they'd stood there and pledged forever to each other.

Those people were once Rose and the Doctor.

But they weren't even that anymore.

The Doctor sighs, tensing up, his hand drifting upwards to scratch the back of his neck in a nervous gesture. "Just that... we can't go," he tells her, gently as possible.

"Why not?" her voice is sharp, like a peck in the tender silence.

"We're... busy, 's all," he tells her. She gives him a warning look, folding her arms across her chest in an act of defiance.

"We aren't busy," she tells him. "Doctor, tell me what's the matter."

He rakes a hand through his hair, conflicted, eyes flickering back and forth from hers to the ground. "You said she called for Thanksgiving, right?"

"Yes."

He sighs. "Rose, it's _past_ Thanksgiving. It's been past November for about... say, three months, so far."

There is a loud, noisy silence as they stand there, mere feet away from each other, and, perhaps, still galaxies away.

"Oh," she says simply. Her face is a blank canvas from what he can see of its profile, but her hands tell a different story altogether, stirring the soup a bit too fast.

"Rose," he says, taking a step towards her – close enough to touch her, but never strong enough to – and extending a hand slightly as if to embrace the air.

"I'm fine," she tells him firmly, but, sounding frustrated, like a child perplexed by a puzzle. "Really."

He bites back a sharp remark and instead words of inquisitions spill from his mouth. "Are you _sure_?"

She nods, still stirring the thick soup at an ungodly rapid pace. "Mm-hm," she slurs.

"If there's anything you need," he starts, "then-"

"I told you," she says, turning around with the spoon still in her hand, equipped with a bright smile that is too eerie and out of place in the dull mood. "I'm fine."

He watches the thick brown liquid drip down the spoon with unease, too afraid to look her in the eye in fear of the darkness and the demons that might roam there openly. _Dreading_ the darkness.

"All right," he voices gruffly.

She turns back around, back to stirring briskly.

He leans against the table, just watching her stir and stir and stir, dreading the moments to come, feeling a dark, looming sense of foreboding.

-stars-

They're flying.

If their feet are meant to be linked to the ground, that is a fact that is nothing more than sheer folly as they fly through the open space, sending each other gleeful smiles with each leap.

"We're on the moon!" she shouts at him, giggling uncontrollably. "How many people can say that?"

"Up to the 51st century? Well, maybe about-" the Doctor starts, before she cuts him off with a sharp yell.

"No!" she cries. "Don't tell me!"

"All right," he says, drifting towards her. The impact sends her flying backwards gently.

"Whoaa!" they both chorus. "Sorry!"

They both burst into another bout of uncontrollable giggles, sinking to the floor of the moon, dust flying everywhere.

"Ha-haa!" the Doctor laughs his signature laugh, smirking gleefully. "Anyway, the moon we're standing on right now is technically man-made. See, the moon gets destroyed 'bout 30th century. So!" he jumps back up, helping her stand. She drifts a few inches off the ground, but he grabs her shoulders and steadies her again, her hair yanking downwards in a plume of bright yellow.

He regards the look she's giving him with uncertain curiosity. "What? What is it?"

She chuckles. "Nothing."

"It's something. Tell me," he prods.

"It's just..." she pauses. "It's just so beautiful up here."

He smiles.

She smiles back.

They're truly, really happy in this one moment.

-stars-

Rose Tyler sometimes forgets things.

She forgets faces all the time, and she forgets names. She forgets calendars and some events.

But she doesn't ever, ever forget friends.

Until now.

"Can you call... er, what's her name, at the office?" Rose asks him timidly, brushing away a strand of golden hair and tucking it behind her ear. She doesn't look him in the eye as she speaks.

"How am I s'posed to know who what's her name is?" the Doctor responds playfully, placing his arms on her shoulders and resting his head in the crook of her neck.

"I... You know," Rose says, frowning. "You know her, you know her," she whispers, more to herself than to the Doctor. "You know her."

"S' something the matter?" he asks her, gently, the way a husband would, and it occurs to her he _is_ her husband, of course he is, of course he is, she knew that, she should have known that.

"No," she says simply. "S' fine. I just... forgot her name, 's all. We had her over for dinner a couple 'a weeks ago," she tells him.

"Emily?" he asks, surprised. There is genuine concern scribbled across his tired features as he looks her in the eye.

She does not look back.

"Yes, yes, that's the one," she says, hurriedly. "Just forgot her name there, for a second."

She forces herself to smile, as if telling him, 'I'm all right, I'm all right, don't worry about me, I'm fine.'

It's a lie.


End file.
